Keep Me Warm
by errandofmercy
Summary: The Headmaster requires some extra warmth.


Two ghosts of light flickered across the Headmaster's tired face – the embers of the dying fire that was not quite enough to keep the chill out of his nose, and a gentler glow which emanated from Fawkes, fast asleep on his perch and puffing quietly through a dream. He let out a long, discreet sigh as the October cold began to creep in beneath his abundant robes. Not discreet enough, however, to escape the attention of the Potions Master dozing at his side with his skinny legs dangling over the arm of the sofa they shared. The younger man's shadowed eyes narrowed in concern as he registered the degree of Albus's discomfort but was, as usual, unsure how to proceed. Sleepily he slid a hand from within his robes and rested it gingerly on the crusty, cursed flesh of Albus's own. The hand itself was deadened with dark magic, but the sentiment did not go unnoticed, especially the unguarded, searching gaze that made the Headmaster's old heart ache.

"What is it?" Severus's voice was thick with sleep.

Albus shook his head dismissively, placing his good hand atop the other wiard's. "Nothing, Severus," he said as kindly as he could. "I believe the cold is getting to me in my old age." Snape continued to look into his eyes, unconvinced. In recent years Dumbledore had begun to approach bedtime with the same reluctance of all elderly people who find themselves unable to sleep through the night. Although he was never sure if it was his failing flesh or the political turmoil in his mind that roused him hour after miserable hour, Severus's presence in these late evenings, however reserved, had kept him sufficiently sane. His mind went a bit wild in the midnight solitude of his office, shadows shifting at the corners of his vision and pulling at the fibers of his composure. The crisp silhouette of Severus's dark head, the gentle swish as he turned the pages of a book – these were the lodestones by which he found his way through the longest nights.

The other man seemed to need no explanation for his requests for company; certainly he also was, as Frost once wrote, "one acquainted with the night." And so it went that more and more frequently Severus would climb the spiral staircase to his chambers, bearing gifts of herbal tea or perhaps something stronger, and take his place by the fire, fading into the background of Dumbledore's office as if he had always been part of the enigmatic, eclectic décor. Silently he kept vigil, reticent but watchful as Albus faded in and out like a rogue moon.

"Here." The Potions Master swung gracefully forward, suddenly wakeful. He carefully renewed the Warming Charm on the Headmaster's blanket, bending down to tuck its hem around the old man's feet. Albus watched him from somewhere just beyond himself, not sure which one of them to feel sorry for.

"Severus, there's no need-" the Headmaster shifted fitfully as the ache that had begun in his back spread up his spine and through his thighs and freezing feet. Snape looked up at him with a glare that was almost – laughably – scolding. "I'm only tired."

Snape's voice had lost its drowsy intimacy and had begun, as it usually did, to sting. "When aren't you tired, Albus? I swear if I'd been counting the hours of sleep we've missed, I could submit both of us for psychiatric evaluation." Despite his bitterness, he continued to weave a longer-lasting warmth around the base of the Headmaster's chair. The heat at last began to penetrate Dumbledore's aching bones, and he relaxed.  
"You know what Gellert used to say?" Albus said jokingly, arching his taut back with a grimace. "I can sleep when I'm dead."

Severus's face hardened. Their eyes met, his fathomless black ones betraying nothing, and yet Albus could see the depth of hurt that lurked behind their steely facade. He kept forgetting that other, younger souls lacked his wry familiarity with death. The unthinkable task that he had set before the poor wizard was still a raw and weeping wound."Severus, I didn't mean-"

It was too late. Snape rose in a flash, spun on his heel, and disappeared into the washroom in a flurry of black robes. Leaving Albus alone again, with only his arthritis and his demons for company.

But chained as he was to his fate, the chill did not last long. In a few moments Severus had returned, a scowl on his thin face and a pile of blankets in his arms. He proceeded to wrap Albus up like a hirsute, upright mummy, and, meeting with no objections, began massaging life back into the frigid fingers of his good hand. Albus let out a contented hum as Snape pulled and kneaded his knobby, gnarled hand, the younger man studying it intensely in an effort to avoid meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry," the Headmaster broke in to the encroaching silence. "That was cruel. I wasn't thinking."

Snape still wouldn't look at him. "No matter," he said stiffly to the floor. Albus felt pity curdle in his empty stomach, even as warmth and relief returned to his body. Despite being buried in blankets he felt compelled to reach out to the man who was desperately trying to give him some dignity despite what he would soon have to do.

"Severus," Albus replied, allowing affection to fill his words, "thank you for taking such good care of me." He halted the massage by gripping Snape's thin, long hand firmly in his own. Severus tried weakly to pull away, but gave up, lifting his heavy head to pierce Dumbledore with a look of utter desolation.

Snape seemed to be about to say something, but his mouth could not form the words. Patiently Dumbledore squeezed his hand and tried to send some small bit of warmth back from his renewed body. The Potions Master's black eyes seemed to look beyond Dumbledore, to see through him to the miserable future that awaited him after their parting. Finally, he spoke, his voice detached and tinged with something that almost sounded like – surprise.

"I can't do it," he said softly. "I can't kill you. You're all I have."

Dumbledore's grip relaxed and Severus's hand slipped away like a wisp of smoke. "You have shown me such tenderness tonight, Severus," he replied vaguely. "Please don't spoil it with unnecessary remonstrance." His heart, already heavy-laden as Atlas' shoulders, sank yet another smidgeon at the young man's words. There was no defiance in his voice, no threat. Albus knew that he would do what was required. But his damaged little heart balked at the tragedy of it. Understandable.

Snape continued to stare through him, his eyes suffused with pain. His arms hung uselessly at his sides as if they had been turned off. Albus wondered if it might be wiser to spend the rest of the night in his bespoke cocoon – he thought of his own palatial but perennially empty bed and of Severus's spartan chambers, where he slept like a rodent in the dank bowels of the school. What a comfort it would be to warm his old bones upon a soft cushion of living flesh! It had been a lifetime since he had shared sleep with another soul, but his memory of the sensation was as vivid as the present. The hypnotic rise and fall of a lover's breath, the curl and twitch of sleeping fingers, the shameless, childlike enfolding of his limbs – all these things came back to him with a fervent yen.

He chided himself for his self-indulgence; there was no place in the plan he'd crafted to invite Severus into his bed, not so cruelly and so late in his own season. Even if the thought did not repulse him altogether, which was a far-fetched whimsy at best, it would only add salt to the wound of the odious duty that awaited him.

With the slow denouement of a wind-up soldier losing its momentum, Severus's thoughts returned from their dark sojourn. Albus could almost feel the retreat of his affections, as if the doors to the vault of emotion inside of him were spinning resolutely shut once more. "It seems I've overstayed my welcome," he said, for once without a trace of sarcasm. "I'll call the house elves to help you to bed-"

"That won't be necessary," Dumbledore replied. The greedy, lonely inner part of himself protested loudly as the Potions Master squared his shoulders and put his robes in order. He felt an entirely different kind of ache as he watched the younger wizard's form retreat from his immediate vicinity. "Thank you for coming to see me, Severus," he called. "It means... a great deal to me."

Snape regarded him one last time, a mixture of anguish and perplexity ghosting over his pale face. His eyes brimmed with meaning, but the only thing that left his lips was a curt "good night." With hushed strides he crossed the office and pattered down the spiral staircase to what Albus knew would be even colder, draftier quarters. If he were planning to sleep at all; at this hour it might be wiser to simply stay up and await the sun's blessed return. The sound of the stone gargoyle grinding back into place loosed some kind of stopper in Albus's brain, and he felt his remaining reserves of energy evaporate like so much spirits. His long beard pooled in his lap as his head slipped forward in resigned half-slumber, eyes closed but the mind behind them swimming with worry and despair. He settled deeper into the blankets that swaddled him, diverting his troubled thoughts with a fanciful imagining of black robes and heavenly, human warmth.


End file.
